


Cure-All

by willowbilly



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Homophobic Language, Imaginary Consent Issues, M/M, Male Solo, Masturbation, Overstimulation, Sexual Fantasy, Shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-11 23:21:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19936192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowbilly/pseuds/willowbilly
Summary: Goodsir gradually awakens from an inappropriate dream involving the caulker's mate to find that he is sexually aroused. There is a muzzy moment of panic in which he believes Hickey to be in the room with him, that somehow the man is present and privy to Goodsir's licentious imaginings, but when he raises his face from his pillow he is alone in his quarters, and he can tell by the atmosphere of the ship that it is still night.





	Cure-All

**Author's Note:**

> Original Prompt here: https://terrorkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/396.html?thread=179596
> 
> _Why they are guilty up to you (guilty about masturbation in general, for generally Victorian reasons? because of who or what they are thinking about? because of where they are doing it? because of how they are doing it?)._
> 
> _Goodsir if my fave, so extra points if it is him, but I will love it for any character (maybe not Hickey, if only because I am not sure there is any way he would feel guilty about it)._

Goodsir gradually awakens from an inappropriate dream involving the caulker's mate to find that he is sexually aroused. There is a muzzy moment of panic in which he believes Hickey to be in the room with him, that somehow the man is present and privy to Goodsir's licentious imaginings, but when he raises his face from his pillow he is alone in his quarters, and he can tell by the atmosphere of the ship that it is still night.

His arms are above his head, and he is on his belly; his erection is trapped in the warmth underneath himself so that his own weight puts a delicious pressure upon his hard prick, and as he remains half-asleep he cannot help but roll his hips down and forward, the friction creating more warmth and further pleasure as he pushes his stiffness against the mattress before he can master himself.

He clutches the sides of his pillow with his hands, drops his head back down, and tries to ignore the state of his own body. If he could only go back to sleep, there would be nothing for him to feel guilty over. One can scarcely control one's dreams or one's nighttime emissions, after all, and if he were to climax while unconscious he would not hold himself morally accountable. Or not _so_ accountable, at any rate.

But he isn't asleep. He can't sleep, and he can't shake away the cobweb remnants of the dream which are clouding up his head.

Goodsir has seen enough of Hickey's body of late that it is clear in his mind's eye. Almost solid and palpable before him. The lashes across his lean little arse are healing nicely, and in the dream Goodsir _had_ been _palpating_ the lashes; touching them, and _not_ as a doctor. He'd spread his hand across Hickey's right buttock and it had been as hot as though the wounds were fresh, and Hickey's slight, pallid body had been bent over the dark wood of the examination table, and Goodsir had draped himself over him, over that wiry muscle all the way to the knobbly upper vertebrae of his spine, to the nape of Hickey's impudent swannish neck where all that coppery hair begins, trying to touch all of his skin to Hickey's skin, and he'd _gripped_ the cheek of Hickey's striped arse, the fading pattern of the young pink scars a brand in his hand, and Goodsir had caressed his flesh to another's.

And not to anyone's flesh, but to the flesh of a patient in his care. And not with simply _any_ patient, either, for this was Mr. Hickey. The man whose scars came from a lashing which had been punishment, in part, for none other than the kidnapping of her whom they call “Lady Silence.”

He'd seen how afraid she was, when he had first come in to give her that tray of food. Hickey was a terrible man to have done that to her. To have dragged her from her home, with ropes around her wrists. How dare they. How dare he. And how dare Goodsir, with him.

_What if Hickey were to fuck Goodsir?_

The thought arrives like the single, echoing ring of a bell. It reverberates there in Goodsir's head over and over with a golden voice: What if Hickey were to fuck him.

“What if _I_ were to fuck _you?”_ the imaginary Mr. Hickey murmurs into Goodsir's ear, his compact frame surprisingly heavy and very strong atop Goodsir, his tone breezily malicious and, most scarily, not without _honest affection,_ and Goodsir is able to imagine Hickey's erect cock between his own buttocks, rubbing there at him through his underclothing. As hot and as mortifyingly stiff with arousal as his own.

He gasps, and presses his face into his pillow to muffle himself, and with a wicked, private thrill, he imagines whiskers kissing the back of his neck. And he feels Mr. Hickey's hand spread across the back of his skull, and feels it press his face deeper into the pillow and keep him there. To keep him pinned as Hickey ruts at Goodsir's arse.

Were this scenario a physical reality, Goodsir would not be the one causing his own hips to judder forth. He would not have his legs spread as wide as they can, here as he is, alone in his narrow bunk, ignominiously grinding his pelvis down to apply more and more pressure against his cock and rocking this crushing point of pressure up and down along his length.

Goodsir is squirming and rubbing, wiggling like a worm and _getting off_ with his hands still over his head and bunched white-knuckled at the corners of the pillow he's half-smothering himself in, his sweat making his clothes and the blankets stiflingly humid, as he imagines an alternate present in which a cad for whom he is responsible uses him in one of the most base and crude of ways: Hickey's heaviness crushing him. Hickey's cock against his arse, thrusting against him, _into_ him.

Goodsir's last good lay was before this expedition; it's been _that long_ since Goodsir has been fucked. And he's been so miserable. This whole winter has been so miserable, when it is not terrifying. Perhaps it is all right to take this for himself, since it is not, in truth, real.

As soon as he reaches one hand into his drawers to take hold of himself Goodsir is nevertheless struck with a deep pang of guilt. The dream-Hickey takes Goodsir's guilt and gives him its intoxicating sibling shame, which burns his cheeks and incites his prick into twitching, for so eager is he to debase himself with this immoral fantasy that his prick is stirred into motion even before the hand he's wrapped around himself is.

Braced upon the elbow of his other arm, he lifts his hips to give his fist and the tender, dribbling head of his cock more space, and he begins partly to stroke himself and partly to thrust into the cruel, sweet tightness of his own dry grip. It is graceless and frantic, and his spine arches until his arse is the highest point of his body. If he holds this position for too long the awkward tension of it will have him cramping, but this sordid exercise will be over far sooner than that.

Like another blanket, Goodsir pulls the fantasy-Hickey's weight over his back again, imagining the man to be pinning him down, or himself being made to hold Hickey up. Hickey hisses endearments to Goodsir, telling Goodsir what a good fuck he is, what an obligingly weak-willed and sluttish mary-anne he must be to have spread his legs for Hickey, and Goodsir shudders and comes with his arse in the air and his swollen prick in his fist, and as before he muffles himself in his pillow.

All his strength drains from him and he collapses into an ungainly heap in his own spend, his body and the sheets soaked with perspiration, the cold seeping in around the edges of the rumpled blankets. Even so, he does not remove his hand from his cock but continues to pull at his slickened, slackening self so that the stimulation at this most sensitive moment soon has him rolling from side to side in tortured silence with a groan trapped behind clenched teeth, and with his hips attempting to escape the harsh ministrations even as he follows his own prick with his hand and wrings it out beyond its utmost with the deft, twisting massage of a particularly jaded milkmaid.

He chokes the head, his thumb rolling excruciatingly firmly over the glans, and he forces the wound to keep bleeding, and forces himself to go tensely frozen and then to relax into the overwhelming, beckoning heat. Succumbing to the scald.

At one point the blissfully mind-numbing agony transforms back into straightforward pleasure, and eventually his hips move in time, and it is then that Goodsir, exhausted, slows into stillness so that sleep can take him. When sleep does, his arm is beneath himself in a way he'll regret in the morning, and his hand is still cupping his thoroughly abused prick and stones, and the small, cold figure of Mr. Hickey is there with him.


End file.
